


RECOLLECTION

by JDominique37



Series: The Storm, the Stars, and the Skies (Kuroko no Basuke Stories) [9]
Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Gen, Kuroko no Basuke Extra Game, POV Akashi Seijuurou
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-21
Updated: 2019-08-21
Packaged: 2020-09-23 13:03:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20340568
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDominique37/pseuds/JDominique37
Summary: In a dream-like world, Akashi comes to terms with his integration during the Jabberwock game and accepts his place as part of Vorpal Swords.





	RECOLLECTION

The night after we defeat Jabberwock, I dream.

I used to dream a lot. I would dream of my father, forcing me to the ground. I would dream of Nijimura-san, telling me I could no longer be captain. I would dream of so many things that, eventually, the difference between them—my fears—and reality became inseparable. But then, after _that_ day, the dreams stopped, like he was protecting me from them. And so, for almost a whole year, my mind was empty, empty save for the drumbeat desire for _victory, victory, victory_.

In the months since Kuroko beat me, I’ve been able to dream again—calm, surrealistic memories of the past. However, tonight’s dream feels more akin to the nightmares that used to visit me. But instead of the faces of my friends or family seeking to torment me, I’m in a blank space, with nothing around but darkness. It is a darkness that I just saw today, a space that I’ve only shared with him before, so I peer into the void, searching.

Something stirs. I turn, expecting to see him—

My mother stands before me. She has a gentle smile on her face, and her red hair is swept over her shoulder, the exact shade as my own. Her thin, elegant fingers reach toward me—white, delicate fingers for stringing violins and caressing a child’s face.

“Seijūrō. You’ve grown so much.”

I take her hand and fold it within my own, marveling at the texture and size—the same as I remember, but different, too. I squint at her. Does she appear older?

She pulls me into her and squeezes, a soft pressure I’ve almost forgotten. “I’m so proud of you,” she says. “I was scared sometimes, so worried. But you’ve outdone yourself.”

I swallow. That pitiable feeling of childness rises inside me. It’s the feeling that my father tried stamping out after Mother died, and it’s the feeling that I could never get rid of. “I didn’t do anything. I just—I thought I was handling things, but . . . I was never able to do anything without help.”

“That’s not true.” She cups my face within her hands.

In this moment, it doesn’t seem like she’s gone. It doesn’t seem strange that I’m taller than her now. Her face is not the reflection of the framed photo I keep hidden in my room; it’s the face from my memories, the face that no camera could capture.

“You’ve done _so_ much,” she says. “More than anyone else could.” Then she smiles, the knowing smile only a mother could have. “It’s okay to admit you’ve had help. But it’s also okay to be proud of your own accomplishments.”

“But—”

She places a finger to my lips, shushing me. Then she disappears.

I don’t have time to further fathom her existence before—

“Aka-chin.”

I revolve to see the owner of that lazy voice. “Hello, Murasakibara.”

Just looking at him helps calm me. He would only ever get upset when something interfered with his daily snacks, and Kuroko could always console him by giving him one of his winning popsicle sticks. I’d always thought it was nice, that single-minded simplicity.

But now, I realize how demeaning my thoughts of him had been. I’d assumed that unlike me, he had no problems to worry about other than what the next meal on his plate was. But Murasakibara, with his endless appetite and insurmountable strength, had just as many frustrations as I had . . .

He holds his hands before him, curiously absent of anything sweet or salty. His voice is shaky when he speaks. “I never mean to . . . That day, I wasn’t thinking. It’s all my—”

I have to stretch to place my hand on his shoulder. It shakes under my touch.

That day, which was both the beginning and ending of many things, was not an isolated incident. It was the culmination of the stress of being captain, the pressure from my father, the need to be absolutely perfect. Murasakibara was not the cause; he was merely another trigger.

There are so many things that could be said between us, but the only one that needs to be heard:

“It’s not your fault, Atsushi.”

I reach into the air, and out of nowhere, a bag of chips appears. The paper crinkles under my fingers, and I rip it apart. I hand the bag to Murasakibara, and tears begin to well up in his eyes as he accepts it. As soon as the first chip disappears into his mouth, he vanishes.

There’s a cough behind me.

Knowing whom to expect, I turn to see Aomine shuffling back and forth. He blushes, the color barely discernable through his dark skin.

“I was so caught up in myself,” he says, staring at his feet. “I never noticed anyone else’s problems . . . especially yours . . . I thought you were one of those people who was never bothered by anything, never had any issues . . . and I’m sorry. Akashi.”

I nod. The Real Aomine would be hard-pressed to admit this, but this dream version doesn’t have such a barrier.

I don’t blame Aomine, just like I don’t blame Murasakibara. Aomine had his problems; I had mine. Perhaps we had pushed each other too much and that had resulted in our demise, but . . . even though we were teammates, it had been too much to expect either of us to have put forth an effort to help the other.

Perhaps, now, we can be better.

“Let’s play again sometime,” I say.

A single tear rolls down Aomine’s cheek, but he furiously wipes it away—then he’s gone.

“Akashicchi!”

I don’t have to turn around this time; Kise barrels into me from behind, nearly knocking me over. Then he releases me and whirls around to face me, his infectious energy seeming to brighten the darkness.

“You don’t have to carry everything by yourself!” He’s trying to glare, trying to be strict, but even now, he can’t hold back his tears. “We’re here, too, you know!”

I’ve never been as close to Kise like I was with Midorima or Kuroko. Sometimes, I wonder if it’s because he was the last member to join us—and I wish I’d put in more effort to spend time with him, encourage him. If he works hard enough, his is a talent that could surpass us all. I saw it then, and I used it as an excuse to get rid of Haizaki. But I hadn’t even thought of what it would be like for Kise to suddenly be brought into a team that had no room for failure, a team that tried to erase any of the light he could’ve used to save us. I am glad now that he, too, has been changed by Kuroko.

I’m about to apologize, but Kise just smiles and says, “I know.”

Then he’s gone. In his place stands a wooden table with a shōgi board lying on top. I glance around, but seeing no one, I take a seat in one of the two opposing chairs. At that moment, Midorima materializes across from me, his normally stiff position relaxed, just like all those hazy school days. He adjusts his glasses with his bandaged fingers. “You take the first move, Akashi.”

I always take the first move.

The game settles into a familiar rhythm, each of us making our moves with barely a second in between. The end of the match is when we slow down to contemplate the other’s strategy.

I win.

There’s a rare smile on Midorima’s face, something that most would not catch. “As expected,” he says, but his voice is tight . . . choked.

Midorima was always my closest friend on the team, perhaps because we had similar upbringings. His parents wanted him to be a doctor, and his own rigid dedication hated to lose. But somehow, around each other, we were able to put aside those pressures and just . . . play.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I noticed . . . I noticed, but I never said anything. I—didn’t know what to do. What to think. And I let everything happen to you, even though you were my best friend.”

Midorima was the first to notice my other self, the first to challenge me. But . . . he was also the first to listen to me. And today, he trusted in _his_ shots, even though he had no reason to.

“You once told me that I would know defeat by your hands,” I say, touching the king, which had been knocked to its side. “But you’ve already taught me more than you could know.”

I see Midorima’s smile widen ever so slightly, a mask to distract from the tear sliding down his cheek, as he fades away.

I close my eyes and breathe in.

He comes from inside—leaning out of my heart until he’s standing before me. He could be my twin in almost every way—except for his bangs, cut short to highlight his dichromatic eyes. Some part of me feels relief to see him, when only earlier he’d vanished so that we could become whole again.

“Are you really gone?” I ask.

“I am only here to pass on a message.”

_I . . . boku. _

“You’ve used me like a tool,” he says. “Not like I’m a part of you. Not ever like I’m a teammate.”

“I . . .” That one word tastes cold on my tongue.

_I . . . ore._

He’s right that I’ve used him. That I’ve only acknowledged him when his abilities could help me, when he could protect me from all the weaknesses I desperately tried to cover up. But what does that mean about _me_? Is that how I really view myself? Not as a person, but as a tool for success, just as my father wished?

He places a hand over his heart. “But I have used you as well. You called on me today for my strength, and I granted it so that I could play with them once more. I also knew that the power you needed was not something that just I could provide, and so, I merged our abilities. Because I’m not just another part of you, something that can be discarded. I am you. Just like you are me. And now, it’s time for us to truly reunite.”

I had always treated him as another person, so that I could lay the blame on him. For what he did to my teammates, to Kuroko’s friend, to everyone at Rakuzan . . . it was his actions, not mine. But the truth is, he is not a separate person from me—he was born from me, and he has returned to me, all because he has never really been apart from me.

Before I can ruminate on what this means going forward, a bright voice interrupts my thoughts.

“Akashi-kun!”

A pink-haired girl appears out of nowhere and throws herself at me. She wraps one arm around me—and the other around _me_. She surrounds both sides of us with her slender arms, embracing us tightly.

For a moment, I’m surprised, but then it makes sense. Momoi was in a management position like me, and together we’d wrangle the others. We shared frustrations after practice and spent hours analyzing our next opponent’s moves. We’d complain about Aomine, then turn to admire Kuroko. She never tried to change me or challenge me; instead, she’d always been content with who I was, no matter who that who was.

She pulls back and cradles my face, just like Mother a few moments ago.

“It doesn’t matter if it’s a part of you or all of you or just some of you. It doesn’t matter which of you. I’ll always support you, Akashi-kun, no matter what.”

I try to speak, apologize to her, thank her—but she shakes her head, and with her pink hair only partially hiding her wet eyes, she disappears from our arms.

I take another look at him—no, myself—and slowly, the distinction between us blurs.

Blurs into nothingness.

“Akashi-kun.”

The voice is quiet, calming.

I lift my gaze to see Kuroko.

His face contains little hint of emotion, just like usual. I wonder if he will cry, too, but then he smiles, and I realize he has used up all his tears. It’s a smile only he can pull off—small, but so full of meaning.

“You accepted us,” he says. “I’m glad. We’re your teammates, after all.”

_Accepted. _When he used his Emperor Eye, he was worried what the others would think, and I’d assured him that they changed. But now, I realize, it’s not that I was worried about them accepting me. I was worried about accepting myself. Accepting that _I_ was a part of the team, no matter my differences. Accepting that I was not at the bottom, not at the top . . . but equal.

I remember what Kuroko said earlier, when I had told them that he might be appearing. _“Akashi-kun is Akashi-kun. There is no difference.”_

Kuroko’s right. He always is. And now, with my other self nestled inside me, a voiceless echo, and my friends surrounding me . . . the future holds so many more possibilities.

_Not less. Not more. Not right. Not wrong. But . . . just me._

Kuroko holds his hand out. “Are you ready?”

I close my eyes.

I see my mother again, my friends.

_Seij_ _ū_ _r_ _ō_ _. Aka-chin. Akashi. Akashicchi. Akashi-kun._

“Yes,” I say. “Let’s go.”

**Author's Note:**

> This one-shot was originally written for the KnB 10th Anniversary fanzine, where the theme was "reunion." What came to mind for me was the dissonance between Akashi's two selves . . . and how, ultimately, in Extra/Last Game, he unites the two. Akashi's personality is obviously a model of Dissociative Identity Disorder, though as not much is known about the disorder, it's hard to say whether or not it's a "realistic" portrayal. Personally, I would've liked to see more of Akashi's thought process when he integrated his two selves, a reunion of sorts, so that's how this story was born.
> 
> This representation of Akashi is all my opinion only! Since I'm also writing an Akashi/OC, I've been doing research on his character, which is undoubtedly complex. However, hopefully I've been able to somewhat accurately portray Akashi and how his thought process would be like. The title references both how Akashi is reminiscing on the past and also "recollecting" his selves.
> 
> Once again, thanks for reading! If you have time, I would love to hear your thoughts.
> 
> ~ J. Dominique


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